


Talk Revolution To Me, Baby: Valentine's Day

by truethingsproved



Series: Talk Revolution To Me, Baby (Drabbles) [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Valentine's Day, general fluffy cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's day drabbles, as requested by four lovely friends. Rating is for ch.1 (and possibly ch.4). General cuteness within the TRTMB 'verse, not in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Number

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astrid_fischer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/gifts), [jehans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/gifts), [tumblr user blagtaire](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+blagtaire), [mercuryhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/gifts).



One of the best parts of Combeferre is his patience. Sometimes Eponine wonders how he does it—she can leave his apartment in the morning and come back a few hours later to see that he hasn’t moved, a cup of tea cold next to him and his head still bowed over the same book. It should be no surprise, then, that he’s a fucking phenomenal lover.

“ _Jesus Christ._ ”

She nearly jumps when he gently squeezes her sides, surprising her, before laying an achingly tender kiss to the side of her neck. “You study almost more than I do,” he teases, his arms snaking around her waist as he nuzzles where his mouth was a moment ago. “I thought you just finished that massive paper.”

“I did.” As if by habit, Eponine leans back into Combeferre, the corners of her lips turning up. She loves how easily they fit together—Marius, she knows, would never, never be like this with her. He would walk on eggshells because poor miserable fucked up Eponine with her piece-of-shit parents and her little brother and sister she needs to take care of and all the baggage in the world. As for Montparnasse, he was fairly gentle, but more often than not whatever gentleness he could muster up was always tinged by a genuine appreciation of her own self-destructive habits.

Combeferre simply is. If she bought into that ‘other half’ bullshit she’d probably say Combeferre’s it.

Of course, she doesn’t say it. They’ve been together about a week. It’s been a shockingly lovely week—they hold hands walking to classes on campus and sometimes just read together on Eponine’s bed, Combeferre leaning against the painted cinderblock wall and tracing patterns absently into her side as he studies, his textbook balanced precariously on his knees and a highlighter poised above the page. Since they started seeing one another she’s actually enjoyed doing schoolwork because more often than not she does it curled up around him.

They’re comfortable in complete silence and can go hours without making a sound, just wrapped up around one another and studying, and they’re comfortable sitting in one of the music department’s practice rooms while Combeferre practices cello for two hours a day and Eponine watches him over the top of her notebooks, and they’re comfortable here, in the library, with Combeferre absently humming a Mendelssohn piece she vaguely recognizes and she pulls another book down from the shelf and sets it down on the desk.

She loves working here, tucked away in this little space between shelves, surrounded by books she needs. It’s her favorite part of the library. She showed Combeferre a few days ago and since then he stops by occasionally to bring her coffee and kiss her awake while she works on her papers, then to walk her back to her dorm, where they curl up again.

“Jehan called me today,” he says after a minute’s silence. “Apparently, there’s a national holiday happening today. Which, naturally, I knew, because I do own a calendar, but we never discussed if we wanted to do something today or if you’re of Enjolras’ mindset.”

“If you’re waiting for me to ask you to do your Enjolras impression you’re not going to have to wait long,” Eponine teases, turning her head just enough to see him, and he presses a kiss to her mouth before grinning at the laughter in her eyes.

” ‘It’s a commercial trap made to ensnare you into the belief that your relationships are only as important as what you’ll pay to keep them interesting’,” Combeferre sighs loftily, and Eponine can’t help but giggle.

She shrugs, though, pulling out the final book she had listed on the index card in her hand. “I’m fine with whatever. Considering how much work we both have it might just be easier to order takeout and pop in a movie we’ve both seen a thousand times.”

“I may have a mildly difficult time focusing on a film,” Combeferre says with the air of one confessing. “Have I mentioned before that I’m rather partial to this whole military-style jacket kick you’re on lately?”

There’s a pause, and Eponine has to stop a hitch in her breath when she feels him drag his hands across her abdomen to rest at her hips. “No, you haven’t,” she says, suddenly very pleased that she’d scoped out the store with this particular jacket—pale pink, three-quarter-sleeves, with two rows of buttons on either side and a ruffle along the bottom—so long that she managed to get it just as it went on sale.

“Well, I am. I’m also particularly fond of the fact that you take after Enjolras in your taste in jeans.”

This time her breath does hitch, because he’s slipped his hands up to curl around her sides, under her jacket, and there’s nothing except a very thin black tee shirt separating their skin. In the past week they’ve slept together only in the literal sense; they’ve kissed until they’ve forgotten their own names and have left each other with hickeys all over like a couple of horny teenagers but there hasn’t been any sex yet and dear god, she wants to know if he’s as controlled and practiced in bed as he is everyfuckingwhere else.

He’s trailing his lips along her neck again, and dear god, her knees are shaking. “How much am I allowed to do?” he murmurs, and _holy shit_.

“Whatever you want,” she breathes, and instantly one hand slides down, only to slip back up underneath her shirt, dragging his short fingernails lightly along her skin.

“Stop me if at any point you’re uncomfortable,” he says softly, and she nods and she’s not sure what she’s expecting but it’s not for him to keep talking. “But, god, Eponine, those jeans really are unholy. All I want to do is peel them off of you.”

“Nnn.”

His fingers are circling her navel now and it takes every single bit of practiced control for her not to grab his hand and direct it under these unholy jeans. “Marius took Cosette out so if we head back to your dorm at a decent time—or my apartment, even—we’d have _plenty_ of time for me to drag them off of you with my teeth.”

Eponine thinks she might explode at the thought. His fingers trace a little lower and she presses back into him, pleased when she finds him rather obviously as excited as she is.

“Tell me exactly what you’d want me to do,” he prompts, and she has to try twice before she can answer.

“I want your hands on me right the fuck now,” she barely manages, and sure enough, there are his fingers slipping under her waistband.

“May I?”

“Oh, god, _please_.”

Then he’s sliding those fingers under her panties and she arches into his hand. He turns her around, keeping the slow, lazy movements of his fingers going, and kisses her hard enough that she lets out a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

She grabs onto his arms to keep standing on those shaking knees, except he’s kneeling now and _holy shit holy shit holy shit_

they’ve had the “have you been tested” talk and Christ almighty he’s unbuttoning her jeans with his teeth what a fucking showoff and he licks a long line just above the waistband of her panties and she’s going to scream.

Her jeans pool at her ankles and her panties follow suit and he sucks a blood bruise on her hip and _oh god oh god oh god_

she doesn’t realize that she’s saying all of this out loud until he lets out a strangled sound to match hers and his fingertip drags against her and she’s used to sex, she’s used to getting fucked hard bent over a table or a desk and she’s used to ‘lovemaking’ from men who think they can fix her but she doesn’t want to be fixed and Combeferre isn’t touching her like she’s indestructible but he’s certainly not touching her like she’s breakable.

He takes his time, and he plays her body like it’s an instrument he’s studied his entire life, touching her _yes right there_ as if he was made for this and nothing _oh god please_ else and Marius who the world is made up of just them and everyone else but really she only cares about him right now, his nose brushing soft against her thigh and his voice sounding as wrecked as she feels when he croaks out “Can I?”

Yes, yes, please, and he is just as practiced and sure as she’s imagined he’d be.

He learns every single inch of her with the kind of care she’d honestly not known possible before this. She bites down on the heel of her hand, her hips shaking, and he continues until she’s stilled, her shoulders heaving and her skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat and her hands trembling. Combeferre sits back, looking up at her with a small smile as he draws the back of his hand across his mouth.

They both wait in silence for a moment until she’s regained the power of speech and he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “I’ve spent far too much of the past year and a half not kissing you.”

She bends to collect her clothes and pull them back on and when she looks at him again she’s still blushing and he’s still smiling at her like she’s something rather extraordinary. One hand floats down to curve around his cheek and he turns to press his lips lightly to her palm.

“Lucky for you we’ve got the opportunity to make up for lost time,” she murmurs, and she feels him beaming against her skin and she wonders if maybe she’s spent too much time not kissing him, too.

She thinks that maybe she has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place about a week after 'Anchored'.
> 
> For Lily.


	2. The Sunbeam Flaring

Somewhere, maybe not here but somewhere, the sun in shining and there are flowers growing and probably birds singing, but here, now, Courfeyrac is waking up next to Jehan and that, Jehan is sure, is worth a thousand spring mornings and then some.

Loving him is effortless. It’s easier than breathing; it’s been coded into him as deep as his marrow. Jehan brushes his fingers lightly across his lover’s bare arm, the corner of his mouth quirking up as Courfeyrac stirs and opens his eyes lazily. “Hi,” he says quietly, his voice husky from sleep, and there’s a swell in Jehan’s chest and he’s smiling so widely it almost hurts.

“Hi,” he whispers, almost giddy, and he leans down just as Courfeyrac reaches up and they meet halfway, soft lips on soft lips. Everything about them fits together perfectly.

Courfeyrac slides his hand into Jehan’s hair with a small hum and Jehan stretches out next to him again, tucking his face in the curve of Courfeyrac’s neck and sighing contentedly. “How long have you been awake?”

“A while.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Watching you sleep. Also, punching Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac pauses, as if he’s not sure how to respond, then chokes out a laugh. “That’s funny.”

“I’m not kidding,” Jehan answers serenely.

There’s a rather strange sputtering sound making its way out of Courfeyrac’s throat and Jehan looks pleased at this, and Courfeyrac somehow manages to demand, “ _Why_?”

“He was being rude.” The little poet’s eyes are blazing. “I don’t tolerate rudeness. He was rude to Lady, he was rude to Grantaire, and he was rude to me. So I punched him.”

Sure enough, when Courfeyrac lifts Jehan’s hand to examine his knuckles, they’re a bit raw, and he laughs and kisses them each in turn. They’ve been together almost a year and Jehan feels as though he should probably be used to this, but he never is, never will be, and honestly, he never wants to be. He never wants to stop feeling that thrill in the pit of his stomach every time Courfeyrac touches him, or smiles at him, or kisses him.

It’s their first Valentine’s day together and Jehan just wants it to be perfect and so far they’re off to a good start, because Courfeyrac just keeps looking at him and grinning and and kissing every inch of him he can reach.

They lay there until the sun is higher in the sky with their foreheads pressed together and their noses touching and their fingers laced together and the words _I love you_ floating between them.

———

Jehan makes them brunch (French toast and pancakes and scones and fresh fruit salad and juice) and Courfeyrac answers the door only to come in holding a massive bouquet of the brightest, most obnoxious dyed daisies that Jehan has ever seen, and so naturally, he’s ecstatic. He lets Courfeyrac braid one into his hair while he finishes cooking and they spend the entire morning touching, holding hands or kissing. (Jehan ends up climbing into Courfeyrac’s lap, and Lady, who is grown now but still small,climbs onto both of them and tries to nose her way into Courfeyrac’s breakfast.)

They spend the day walking around, their hands intertwined and warm in Courfeyrac’s coat pocket, and Courfeyrac keeps stopping to tug Jehan into him and kiss him silly tucked into some doorway, under a shop’s awning, beneath bare and frosty trees. They kiss in the middle of the road at a red light and they kiss outside a coffee shop but Jehan’s favorite is when Courfeyrac crowds him against the outside wall of their favorite book store and kisses him kisses him kisses him like he’s plotting a map of Jehan’s face and needs to memorize its shape.

They sit at the edge of the frozen river, sipping cautiously at their hot chocolates, and exchange gifts. For Courfeyrac, a digital camera, the one that he’s been coveting for months now that he’s mentioned offhand but never expected Jehan to actually buy, because Courfeyrac is starting to get into photography again. For Jehan, a volume of Yeats (“Yeats is sexy poetry,” Courf says, smug, and Jehan nearly spills his hot chocolate in his rush to kiss his boyfriend) that’s almost a hundred years old and another of Keats and a third, a leatherbound journal in which Courfeyrac has handwritten every single poem Jehan has ever quoted to him. Jehan actually starts crying at that, his too-long sleeves covering his hands and his hands covering his face, and Courfeyrac takes a picture of him.

———

When Enjolras and Grantaire stumble back into the apartment that night, shedding each others’ clothing in such a frenzy that they leave a trail, they both let out a vague shout of surprise when they fall back on a couch with no cushions. They peek into Jehan’s room (Grantaire absently kisses the bruise blooming over Enjolras’ eye, and Enjolras flushes but doesn’t say a word, despite his growing smile) to find that the couch cushions and pillows and everything from Jehan’s bed has been appropriated to make a fort.

Moulin Rouge is playing on Courfeyrac’s laptop and Courfeyrac is asleep with Jehan, their hands entwined and their hair tangled together and Lady curled up on the bare matress.

“They’re sickening,” Grantaire says fondly, sliding his arms around Enjolras from behind, and Enjolras nods.

“Let’s not wake them,” he suggests, turning to kiss Grantaire again and back him into the other bedroom, but it’s too late; they’ve woken Jehan, who watches Courfeyrac for a few minutes before leaning forward to press his lips lightly to the tip of his nose.

Courfeyrac wakes with a soft groan and a smile, only to kiss Jehan in return. He reaches up languorously to skim his hand underneath Jehan’s sweater, moving to help the small poet remove the offending garment before tugging his own shirt off. Their jeans come next, and then it’s socks and boxers and Courfeyrac is stretched out on top of Jehan, licking lazy patterns along his chest and shoulders.

“I love you.” Courfeyrac’s voice is muffled, his mouth pressed firmly to the curve of Jehan’s jaw, and Jehan gasps and lets out a breathy sound halfway between a moan and a sigh.

 _“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair_ ,” he murmurs in response, and then it’s a matter of gently curved fingers and arched backs and Jehan has Courfeyrac on his back now, Courfeyrac’s hands curved around his hips and Jehan’s fingertips digging into his lover’s sides as he moves above him. He bends forward to swallow Courfeyrac’s sounds with a kiss, only for Courfeyrac to wrench himself away with a wry smile.

“ _I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body_ ,” he barely manages and when they lie together, spent and exhausted and wrapped so tightly around one another they’re not sure which limbs belong to whom, Jehan kisses him like his lips don’t know what to do when they’re not near Courfeyrac’s.

His voice is soft and barely audible when he murmurs back, “ _I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes_ ” and then, softer, “I love you more than I could ever say.”

Even the greatest poets haven’t found a way to describe something like this. Language is inadequate, but they understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is "I Crave Your Mouth..." by Pablo Neruda. This one takes place about a year after 'Depending'.
> 
> For Emily.


	3. The Perils of Baking

Joly nearly shrieks when he walks into the apartment to find it loud and messy and exactly how he likes it.

Joly is a _hypochondriac_ (not OCD, Grantaire, they are not the same, would you _please_ read one of the articles I email you and learn the difference), and while he's perfectly content to make it a joke (because it does make it that much less terrifying when his friends are laughing around him and Musichetta and Bossuet are kissing him until his fear's gone) it is a big deal, and so when there's chaos he prefers it to be his chaos, because he at least knows where it's been.

He's getting used to Musichetta's and Bossuet's chaos--he's more used to Bossuet's because they've been together almost six years now, since high school, and Musichetta's only been around for almost two of them (even if they are the two best years of their lives).

But there they are, Musichetta with her hair pulled back and one of Bossuet's button-ups on over a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top, Bossuet wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants (have they been in bed all day?) and it looks a bit as though a bakery exploded.

They're laughing and smiling and Musichetta is singing to Bossuet, who's pressing his lips against the back of her neck, and they both positively beam when Joly comes in. Musichetta extends one expectant hand and when he takes it, she tugs him around the island to kiss him soundly, letting out a contented hum when he finishes kissing her and reaches around her to kiss Bossuet.

"What are you doing?" he asks, rather comfortable wrapped around the two people he loves most, and Musichetta grins and nuzzles his neck.

"I am teaching our beautiful Bossuet how to _bake_." She looks rather proud of this, and she bites lightly at Joly's lip. "Come on. We've been terribly lonely without you today. You're baking with us."

Joly means to protest, he really does, because he's got homework and he and Combeferre are studying later and do you know how _hard_ it is to find a time they're both free now that Combeferre's got a girlfriend (the answer, in case anyone is wondering, is _very_ ) but it's damn near impossible for anyone to say no to Musichetta when she's pouting like this and so with a sigh he ties the apron she hands him around his waist and she resumes her instruction.

They're making chocolate cupcakes, of all things, with pink and red frosting because goddamn it, it's Valentine's day. And the first time it happens it's probably entirely innocent--Musichetta gets a bit of batter on her finger while she's stirring, showing the boys how to make sure that all the batter is stirred in and that the dry ingredients aren't hiding out on the bottom, and she wipes it playfully on Joly's nose. He's about to protest when Bossuet leans forward to clean the batter away with a kiss and a gentle bite to the end of his nose.

And if Musichetta's hard to tell no, then so is Bossuet, and Joly finds himself blushing as Bossuet sticks his finger into the batter and smears it across Musichetta's cheek.

"Oops," he says, entirely innocent, and Musichetta laughs so loud it echos around their apartment, joyful and loud and ringing like bells. Before she can wipe it off Joly is darting forward to lick her cheek, and they're all smiling so widely that their faces hurt.

And if it completely deteriorates from there nobody can really blame them.

Suddenly there's batter flying and Joly is shrieking something about salmonella because uncooked eggs and Bossuet is silencing him with a sweet and well-received kiss that somehow ends with Musichetta sitting on the island, the bowl of cupcake batter in her lap and a spoon in her hand while she watches the boys wrestling each other to the floor with kisses and smiles and suddenly

" _BOYS--_ "

suddenly there's flour filling the entire kitchen and Musichetta is screeching and covering her batter protectively as if it's an infant and Bossuet and Joly are coughing and eyeing one another curiously through the cloud of flour in the air.

Musichetta's still got her head bowed over the bowl and is refusing to look up until she's sure it's safe, because her priorities are in order and there's cupcake batter to be protected. Bossuet slowly stands--because of _course_ it's Bossuet whose flailing hand hit the bag of flour and knocked it over--only for Joly to grab him by the shirt and tug him back down to the floor.

"I think I'm dying," Joly announces dramatically, and Bossuet raises an eyebrow, grinning when Musichetta slides off the island, finally deeming it safe to leave her batter unprotected, and runs a hand across his shaved head.

"I think we need to kiss it better," she practically purrs.

The cupcakes are forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at the same time as Call Number (ch.1)
> 
> For Simon.


	4. Found Each Other Thirsty

_Hey-o. If you don't know who you've called or what to do by now you might want to just hang up._

Enjolras really needs to start thinking his temper through because he keeps doing things like walking outside in the snow without a jacket in the middle of February when he and Jehan fight. His eye is probably starting to bruise, but he deserved that hit, and he knows it.

"Grantaire, this is the fourth time I've called you and I'm _freezing_ and I left my keys at my place so I can't just come in. Pick up? _Please_ pick up? Or just let me in."

There's a pause of about two minutes wherein Enjolras glowers darkly at his phone before calling Grantaire again.

"If you're waiting for me to do something embarrassing and straight out of Jehan's book you're not going to have to wait very long _._ "

Still no response.

They'd fought the night before and of course Enjolras had said awful things and it was the first night they'd spent apart in what felt like ages. It's been almost a year since they'd gotten together in the first place, and their arguments haven't gotten any easier to bear--Grantaire still drinks too much, Enjolras still snaps without thinking, and Enjolras probably would have spent the entire day sitting angrily in his bedroom and hating everything but especially couples that _didn't_ fight this much if Jehan hadn't dragged him out that morning.

"Go talk to him."

"This really isn't any of your business, Jehan."

"When I stop caring about you two it'll stop being my business."

"Back off. Focus on your own love life; not all of us can be like you and Courf." Lady tried to jump into his lap and Enjolras swatted at her angrily; at that point Jehan's fist connected with Enjolras' face.

"If you ever treat that cat as poorly as you've been treating your boyfriend again I'm going to feed you your own insides," Jehan threatened, looming over him in a fairly horrifying manner, and he'd pointed to the door. "Get out. Go apologize to your boyfriend and _beg_ his forgiveness and you can come back when you can look back at how you've treated him and not feel horrible for it."

Which explains why Enjolras is scowling and making a snowball even though his hands are freezing and hurling it at Grantaire's window.

He calls once more, and this time, Grantaire picks up.

"I'm trying to sleep, fuckfist, what do you want?"

Enjolras is about to respond when he stops. "What, exactly, is a fuckfist?"

"You are flying in a little rocket a thousand miles over the point, Apollo."

"Please let me in."

"Did you bother to check the door?"

Oh. "No. Is it unlocked?"

"No, and it's staying that way. I'm _tired._ And you're a dick."

Enjolras clears his throat. "Please," he says quietly, "let me in. I want to see you."

There's a loud groan and then Grantaire hangs up, and Enjolras bounds into the apartment building and up the stairs, reaching Grantaire's door just as it opens.

Grantaire is scowling, but the scowl vanishes when he sees Enjolras. "Who hit you?" he demands, and Enjolras laughs, relieved.

"Jehan. I pushed him too far." Grantaire looks ready to strangle the little poet, and Enjolras shakes his head. "I was refusing to come here and I snapped at the cat and you know how he is about Lady."

This just makes Grantaire look angry and kind of sad, and he steps aside listlessly for Enjolras to come in.

"I said some horrible things to you last night," Enjolras starts, and Grantaire cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Save it. I don't--it's fine. It's done."

It's not fine _or_ done, and that much is clear by the way Grantaire won't meet his eyes. Enjolras feels something akin to having the wind knocked out of him and he shakes his head almost violently.

"No, it's not fine. I was _awful._ "

"Yeah, well, so was I, so, whatever. Um. You can wait here for someone to let you back into your apartment, if you want. You know where the coffee is. I'm gonna go back to bed."

Enjolras reaches out and brushes his fingers against Grantaire's wrist, and Grantaire jerks it away as if he's been burned. There's definitely something empty in Enjolras' ribs now, and he nods, withdrawing his hand.

He clears his throat and feels something like burning in the back of his throat. "Happy Valentine's day," he says, simply because he can't think of anything else to say; Grantaire lets out a bitter laugh.

"Happy Valentine's day, Apollo," he answers, and it almost sounds sincere.

\------

_"Don't you ever get sick of not believing in anything?"_

_"Don't you ever get sick of bashing your head against the wall and expecting it to give way?" is Grantaire's ready reply, and he glares darkly at Enjolras. It's been a rough week--he'd tried quitting, again, and yet here he is, staring resolutely at a bottle of whiskey like he wanted to inhale it.  
_

_It cuts Enjolras to the core, though, and not for the first time he wonders what had even brought Grantaire and Enjolras together in the first place. "Doesn't it ever strike you as wasteful that you have no ambition, no drive, and no discipline to go with your talent?"  
_

_"Seems like the gods gave it all to you, O Fearless Leader." Grantaire is practically sneering. "Begging pardon that some of us are still human and breakable and prone to all manner of folly."  
_

_"Grantaire--"_

_"Go on, say it. Say what you're thinking." The others all look uncomfortable; they know what's coming next, and they don't know how to stop it. Eponine's grip on Combeferre's hand looks painful and Jehan tucks his face into Courfeyrac's shoulder, looking horrified; Cosette is glaring at Enjolras like she wants to eat him alive, though. "Come on, if you don't I will."_

_Enjolras sets his jaw angrily but doesn't say a word._

_"Why do you waste your time with a useless drunk? Why do you stoop so low only to berate everyone who isn't blessed with your divine inspiration? Tell me, please, I'm begging you, Apollo, shine some light on this."_

_Grantaire always knows what to say to leave him floundering. The problem is, the moments he's most often struck silent are the moments when he needs most to speak._

_So he says the only thing he can--"If you're going to have a tantrum can you please wait until I'm finished?"--dismissive and angry and shaking, and there's a hole in his chest, all cut up with jagged edges, that only gets wider and that much more raw when Grantaire knocks the whiskey over and storms out of the apartment._

_There's no sound but Lady's mewling as Jehan gathers her into his arms, and then, Cosette's voice:_

_"Do you get off on treating him like shit?"_

_Combeferre cuts in smoothly with a soft, "We're done for tonight," and no one tries to say goodbye after Enjolras closes the door to his bedroom behind him and locks it with an angry click._

\------

Grantaire's bedroom is dark and he's probably not actually asleep, but all the same, Enjolras hesitates before climbing into bed next to him.

They lay in complete silence for several minutes before Enjolras starts speaking.

"Are you happy?"

It's not what Grantaire expects to hear, but he's hearing it, and he frowns, still facing away from Enjolras. "Right now? No."

"In general. With me."

"Yes."

The answer comes so readily that it sounds like it's just instinct, and Enjolras turns his head to stare at Grantaire's curls, hoping that he'll turn around. "You are?"

"Yeah, I am." There's a long pause, heavy enough that it feels like Enjolras' chest is being crushed by some weight he can't quite bear, and Grantaire finally asks, "Are you?"

"Not when you aren't."

There's a strangled little sound coming out of Grantaire's mouth.

"No one else does this to me, R. I always have a good answer for everything. And then with you--nothing." Biting his lip, Enjolras closes his eyes briefly. "I don't understand how you're happy."

"If you want out, you know where the door is, Apollo." Enjolras opens his eyes and Grantaire's shoulders are shaking. "No need to make this about me. We've had a good run."

"Is that what you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter."

"Grantaire."

"Fuck, of course it's not what I want."

"I love you."

No matter how many times he's heard it, it's still almost hard to believe, and Grantaire clears his throat. "I love you, too."

"I know. Please look at me."

Grantaire sighs and rolls onto his back, turning his head to look at Enjolras.

"I'm not here just because Jehan made me. I'm here because I love you and contrary to popular belief I hate fighting with you."

"Your revolutions are always going to come first. I get it."

Enjolras actually flinches at that, not because it isn't true but because it is. Grantaire sighs and slides out of bed to go stand at his window, pulling the curtains aside to let some light in and opening the window so he can smoke.

He's lighting his cigarette when Enjolras comes up behind him and snakes a pair of arms around his waist. "Are you honestly happy?"

"Jesus Christ, you really have to ask that? Of course I am. It's _you._ " Enjolras tightens his arms around Grantaire and buries his face in the curve of his neck.

"Is that really enough, though?"

"I'm not in this to change who you are, Apollo, I'm in it because I've been in love with you since I fucking met you." He holds the cigarette up, and Enjolras lifts his head and lets Grantaire deposit the cigarette between his lips. "Do you want out?"

"No. No, no, no, absolutely not," Enjolras promises, unwrapping one arm so he can take the cigarette between his fingers, flicking the ash out the window. "Forgive me. I was out of line and _wrong._ "

Grantaire just nods, leaning back into him.

Today, Enjolras thinks, today his revolutions can wait. Just a few hours. There's no point in trying to save the world if you just destroy your own in the process, and this, this man standing completely still in his grasp, this is _his_.

"You were wrong," Grantaire adds quietly as he finishes his cigarette. "I believe in you."

\------

They end up in bed again, Grantaire stretched out above Enjolras, his face tucked into the curve of his shoulder and Enjolras' hands fisted in the back of Grantaire's shirt. They sleep for a bit, waking up to each other with confused little smiles, and when Grantaire points out that Enjolras has class today Enjolras rolls his eyes.

"They'll survive one day without me being a smart-ass," he answers, and Grantaire snickers.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he says, serious now. "I'm not mad or anything and I get that you've got shit to do."

Enjolras nods, answering, "I know," and Grantaire just stares at him with a mixture of surprise and wonderment until Enjolras kisses the look away.

\------

When they finally drag themselves out of bed it's already past noon and Enjolras makes coffee while Grantaire makes French toast, and it feels so natural, almost domestic, that Enjolras wonders more than once how they got there.

"Let's go out tonight," he suggests suddenly, and Grantaire snorts.

"Seriously, I get that you're doing that whole 'good boyfriend' thing and taking it very seriously, but a) you hate Valentine's day, and b) you hate supporting capitalist bullshit, and c) where do you propose we go when every other couple in the world is out today?"

Enjolras shrugs, because really, he has no fucking idea, and Grantaire just laughs fondly.

They stand in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Grantaire volunteers, "I didn't do it, you know. Drink. I thought about it but I didn't."

The coffee and toast is forgotten as Enjolras takes both of Grantaire's hands and tugs him closer, kissing him soundly. The French toast gets burned; neither of them care.

\------

Okay, so, maybe years of ignoring all things commercial to the best of his ability has ensured that Enjolras really isn't prepared for, really, anything on Valentine's day, but this gives Enjolras the opportunity to pull Grantaire closer to him and kiss him fairly indecently for being out in public.

Which, mind you, neither of them is complaining about.

The fourth time this happens Enjolras ends up with his hips pressed against Grantaire's and both hands under his shirt. Enjolras mouths at his neck hungrily, digging his fingernails into Grantaire's sides and biting down just hard enough that it'll be sore.

Grantaire slides one hand down the back of Enjolras' jeans and grins at the answering groan.

"My place?" Enjolras suggests, breathing heavily, and Grantaire just nods, removing his hand to grab Enjolras'.

They practically bolt back to the apartment.

By the time they get there, they're relieved to find that Jehan has left the door unlocked, and Grantaire's coat gets flung away from them with such force that they both jump in surprise at the slap of leather against the hardwood floor. Enjolras' shirt comes next, one of Grantaire's flannels, and then Enjolras has both hands hooked under Grantaire's waistband and they're falling back against the couch and _god,_ Enjolras is never over this, no matter how many times they do this he's never used to the way Grantaire feels practically shaking with want.

They both let out a startled shout, though, when they fall back on a couch without cushions.

Looking at Enjolras curiously, Grantaire stands, peering curiously at Jehan's door before gesturing. When they get there, Jehan and Courfeyrac are fast asleep, curled around each other and ignoring the movie playing on Courf's laptop; Grantaire kisses the bruise forming over Enjolras' eye and Enjolras makes a mental note to thank Jehan. He's flushing a bit, and his lips curl up in a smile, because no matter how often they fight this is it, this is all he wants.

"They're sickening." Grantaire's voice is fond, and he slides his arms around Enjolras from behind, like Enjolras had done this morning. Enjolras nods.

"Let's not wake them," he suggests, and he turns around to kiss Grantaire, bringing both hands to his face before backing him into his bedroom. (Their bedroom?)

(Enjolras stares down at Grantaire naked against his sheets for a moment too long and finds himself at a loss for words again, because Grantaire should have left by now.)

(It's probably unhealthy but Enjolras isn't going to argue it because he can't imagine being without him now.)

Most nights they go fast and hard and almost angry and collapse, spent, exhausted, but tonight it's different. Slower. More careful. Enjolras keeps his eyes on Grantaire's the whole time, and Grantaire, for his part, keeps his hands clenched around Enjolras' hips, guiding him as much as holding him steady as he moves beneath him.

Time stops and Enjolras tips his head back, gasping, and when they're finished Enjolras simply rolls away from Grantaire and watches the rise and fall of his chest, his breathing labored. The corners of his mouth curl up.

"What?" Grantaire asks, glancing over at Enjolras, still breathing too heavily to get out much more than that.

Enjolras shrugs. "Nothing," he says, but he thinks, _mine,_ because Enjolras doesn't belong to anyone but himself, but if he did, it would be Grantaire. And Grantaire is here, in his bed, like he has been so often before, and it still strikes Enjolras as amazing that Grantaire, who has more reason than any of them to leave, stays anyway.

It's really only a matter of saying it, then. At this point they've been trading "I love you"s for months now, and Grantaire's face always lights up just a bit when Enjolras says it (especially when he says it first). So he starts with that, a careful "I love you" murmured against Grantaire's mouth, and he could do this for days, just stay here wrapped around this perfectly imperfect man lying next to him, but instead he props himself up on one elbow and waits as Grantaire slides out of bed to get cleaned off.

When he gets back, Enjolras kisses him again, and again, and again, and it's so achingly real that for a few minutes he seriously considers that there's no way this will ever last, because the world likes to break beautiful things like this, but the world will have to break him first because he's given up enough and he's not giving this up too.

The words slip out before he can really plan them out any better and Grantaire pulls away, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline and his eyes huge. He asks--begs, really--Enjolras to repeat himself, and Enjolras does, one side of his mouth curving up in a smile as he shifts to lay over Grantaire, his elbows on either side of Grantaire's head and one hand curling lazily in his hair. _  
_

"I said, move in with me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at the same time as The Sunbeam Flaring. Title is from the Pablo Neruda poem Absence.
> 
> For Shelby.


End file.
